Then came the echo from his four-year-younger “mini-me” Scott, “Yeah Nana, we don-know what you got.”

Another 30 seconds and Gramma would pull the candy out from the cupboard. Anything to get them away from the fridge.

My boys adored their Nana and would tell their teachers about how she was from Italy and came here on a “big boat.”

One day Kevin came home with a note from his second-grade teacher asking if Kevin’s Nana could come to her class and tell her students about why she wanted to come to America, her trip overseas and life as an immigrant during the Depression.

At the time Gramma was a young girl of about 80 and still full of spit and vinegar with a hint of Jack Daniels, and a vocabulary a bit along the lines of a salty sailor – to put it nicely.

She always said what was on her mind – no filter – and frankly, I was a little nervous about her in front of a class of 7- and 8-year-olds.

Unfortunately, the teacher had asked Kevin first if he would like his Nana to come to class and he was on the phone to her before I’d even finished reading the note.

“Nana said she would come to my class, Nana said she would come to my class,” he yelled, as he held out the phone to me. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Di-ana, splain-a ta me, what-a he wan?” she said.

Gramma, who ruled with an iron fist as a mother, had softened up considerably as a grandmother, but was melted butter for her great-grandchildren and never wanted to disappoint them. She said “yes” to Kevin without even knowing what she was agreeing to do.

However, to me she had no problem saying “no,” which is just what she said when I explained what she’d have to do.

Not knowing how I would exactly explain it to Kevin, I had to pull out the big guns.

“Gramma, you have to come to school,” I began. “If you don’t, Kevin will cry.”

Just the mention of his tears were like Kryptonite to her and she reluctantly agreed.

I went to visit Gramma several times before her speaking engagement to try and help her with what to say.

“Gramma, just tell the kids that you love America and that’s why you wanted to come,” I told her.

“Me love-a dis-country, you know da!,” she said angrily. She didn’t tolerate anyone even coming close to questioning her patriotism.

After awhile I figured I’d just cross my fingers, hope for the best and let her wing it.

When the day came, Gramma brought her own entourage to Kevin’s class which included me, my mother and my Aunt Fran.

The teacher showed Gramma to a big chair at the front of the room, had her students sit at her feet and gave her a very nice introduction.

I told the teacher that Gramma would probably do better answering questions than making a presentation, so to get things going the teacher asked her some general things like her name, age, where she was born, how long she’s lived in America and so on.

Things were going pretty good until the questions were opened to the students. I will never forget it as long as I live.

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